No wonder nothing lived here. The jellyfish ate the birds out of the air, and this thing must scour the water of anything with more than two cells to rub together. Huge bubbles of methane were surfacing around it, released from the mud it must have been buried in. The smell was indescribable. Or actually no, it wasn’t indescribable. It smelled like shit.

“Who calls the Prince of the Mud?”

The snapping turtle spoke slowly. Its voice was raspy, an old chain smoker’s. Its head was blunt and blocky and a little bit comic, kind of like a talking thumb. Its piggy eyes were set deep in nests of horny skin, which made it look angry, which Eliot was going to assume it was until it proved otherwise.

“Oh,” it said. “You.”

“Yeah, me. Pooh, you smell.”

“The smell of life.”

“The smell of farts. Got a question for you.”

“What else do you have for me? I cannot eat questions. The hunting has been poor.”

Its huge face was all hide and beak. Its neck was as thick as its head.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sometimes Eliot wondered if Janet were a little bit sociopathic. How else could she possibly sound bored and casual in this situation? Though Eliot knew she had feelings, she just kept them in different places from most people. “We’ve got a couple of horses. Answer my question and we’ll talk.”

Eliot kept his face blank. She had to be bluffing. No way was Janet giving this thing the horses.

“I’m High King Eliot,” he said.

“He owns this shithole,” Janet said.

“I am Prince—”

“Prince of the Mud,” she cut him off. “Which Eliot owns. We know. You’re a giant turtle.”

“Your kingdom may be wide, but it is spread thin. Mine runs deep.”

It turned its head slowly from side to side, studying them with first one matte-looking eye, then the other. A jellyfish drifted past, its tentacles limply brushing the turtle’s forehead, but the leviathan didn’t appear to notice.

“Ember says Fillory is dying,” Eliot said. “What do you think? Is it true?”

“Death. Life. A fish dies. A billion mites eat it and live. In the swamp there is no difference.”

“There is to the fish,” Janet said. “You’re a shitty philosopher, so don’t try. Is Fillory dying?”

If turtles had shoulders it would have shrugged.

“Yes then. Fillory is dying. Give me horses.”

“Wait, are you serious?” Janet was pissed now. She looked like she hadn’t believed it until this moment. “It’s really ending? Well, can we stop it?”

“You cannot.”

“We can’t,” Eliot said. “But maybe there’s somebody who could?”

“I cannot say. Ask the queen.”

“I’m the queen,” Janet said. “Or I’m a queen. I’m the main queen. I’m asking you.”

“Queen of the dwarves. In the Barrens. Enough. Give me horses or let me be.”